


Vengeance Satisfied

by Kaicielia



Series: Miria [5]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Battle, F/M, Injury, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 16:28:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4107483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaicielia/pseuds/Kaicielia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been years since Miria's family was killed. She lived as a slave and as a soldier in that time, and was believed by many to have been sent by the Gods to fulfill the prophesy of the Dragonborn. It all disappears the instant she sees the commander who led the troops to her home all those years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vengeance Satisfied

**Author's Note:**

> Miria and Ulfric very much have a love/hate relationship. They know each other as much as any two individuals can, and care deeply for each other, but have thus far refused to take their relationship any further. It wouldn't be proper, after all, and there are so many more important things that have to get done.

The battle was lost, that fact was quickly becoming evident. Miria hoped the jarl was not putting too much faith in her abilities; not sacrificing the lives of his men on the altar of the Dragonborn. She looked over her shoulder, anticipating the call for retreat. She deflected a swinging axe and shouted again, her Voice pushing back the ring of attackers that surrounded her. The enemy hesitated before attacking again, they always did when she used the Voice, and she was able to take stock of the situation.

As Miria looked across the battlefield she saw a face that she recognized. The angry roar that rose in her ears deafened her to the battle that surrounded her. It was him; the man who had led the force that attacked her family’s farm when she was just a child, killing her father and brothers; the man who had slit her mother’s throat in front of her; the man who had prepared her for the black market.

Everything else fell away. She growled low in her throat and took a step in his direction. When he looked her way she saw recognition in his eyes, as well as hubris. 'He doesn’t think I can beat him.' Miria smiled wickedly and pointed her blade at him, continuing her advance.

He gestured to a soldier behind her, so Miria broke into a run and screamed her fury at him, her Voice knocking him back several steps even at this distance.

A familiar cry from behind pierced through her anger, calling her name, but stubbornness pushed her forward and she ran faster. Something stung her but this she also ignored. Justice would be served; her vengeance would be sated.

Her steps faltered as the poison from the dart took effect. She pulled her sword back as she reached the general, her primal roar rivaling that of any dragon, but darkness closed on her mind before she was able to sink the blade into his flesh.

 

'Wake up,' a voice echoed in Miria’s head. Just on the edge of consciousness, she could sense bodies moving around her. She was lying on a soft surface, stripped of armor and weapons, bound and gagged. She struggled to open her eyes, pushing the darkness away and denying the poison that still surged through her veins. She heard his voice, congratulating his men on the easy victory, but the answering cheer was cautious, unsure. 

“We should kill them now,” one of the men shouted.

“Death on the battlefield is too good for them,” the general countered. “They will die by the headsman’s axe.”

Through half-lidded eyes she saw the dark portal in the fabric of the tent close and a lone figure turn her way.

Memories of the recent battle returned and she hid a smile. Neither skill nor power assured her that this man would die; her determination and his pride would be his undoing. He was convinced he could control her, evident by the fact she still lived, and she welcomed the opportunity to kill him.

“So, my little half-breed whore turns out to be the Dragonborn. Should have charged more for you.” He tossed his chestplate aside. “No matter, I have you back. Now the question is, do I make a fortune selling you again or do I gift you for a position of luxury? I weary of killing your kin.” He removed the rest of his armor and stood in front of her. “I know you are awake. Sit up.”

Miria struggled to move but her arms and legs felt like lead.

“I said sit up!” he shouted, grabbing her roughly and pulling her up. When she finally gained her balance he slapped her hard across the face, sending her back onto the bed.

The shock of pain cleared Miria’s mind, adrenaline chasing the effects of the poison from her limbs. It also loosened her gag. She remained on the bed, however, feigning fear and confusion.

“Stupid Stormcloaks,” the general laughed, shedding his gambeson as he had his armor. “Too stupid to realize when they’ve been beat. This time no dragon will save Ulfric Stormcloak.”

‘He took them prisoner,’ Miria thought. ‘The jarl and his men are still in the camp and the Imperial general is disrobing in front of me.’

“I said sit up,” the general repeated, his voice turned cold, as he removed the last of his clothing.

Miria sat up slowly, avoiding the general’s eyes lest he see his death reflected in them.

He grabbed her hair and wrenched her head back and her faint cry of pain worked its way around the gag. “I suppose I should make sure you haven’t forgotten the lessons I taught you,” he said, using his free hand to stroke himself to hardness. “And maybe I could teach you a thing or two more.” 

His confidence faltered for just a second as he looked into her eyes, but before he could move to defend himself Miria broke from his grasp, took his member into her mouth and clenched her teeth together.

His hot blood in her mouth brought more pleasure than every night they had shared a bed. She spit the now flaccid lump of flesh onto the ground. He did not fight back when she moved away from him, collecting his sword and dagger and cutting her binds as she went. Rather, he stared in shocked silence before cupping his groin and releasing an unreal, deathly scream. 

Miria kicked over a lantern, its flame licking the fabric of the tent and growing as it fed. She moved to the side of the tent flap, taking down the Imperials that streamed in to protect their general one at a time. 

When six lay dead before her she heard the sounds of battle begin anew in the camp. She pulled the flap aside, killing a seventh as he ducked to enter, and watched as Imperials rushed back to the posts they had abandoned at their general’s scream. A line of Stormcloaks fought off the enemy as their brethren cut their binds behind them and took up whatever weapons they could find.

Miria walked to the center of the camp, blood covering her face and the front of her tunic, and let loose a battle cry. The Imperials that didn’t flee surrounded her, emboldened by the fact that she wore no armor, but their blades seemed to have little effect. She felt metal nip at her arms and legs but fought through the pain, each wound amplifying her fury. 

She bashed one attacker back with her shield and parried a wide swing from another. She saw the opening too late to close it and so continued with her counter attack, accepting a dagger in her side in exchange for taking the second attacker’s head from his shoulders. The eyes of his comrade widened in disbelief as she smiled wickedly and shouted, setting both ablaze.

The attacks slowed when a voice cried out. “She killed him! The general is dead!” The morale of the Imperials snapped and they fled the camp, losing another score of men to the Stormcloaks as they scattered into the night.

A cheer rose up. Groups of Stormcloaks chased the Imperials, cutting them down before they could regroup and renew the fight. A heavy hand on her shoulder drew Miria’s attention and she turned to see one of the Stormcloaks next to her, a smile wide on his face. “I take it you and the general have some history,” he said, humor coloring his words. His smile disappeared when he saw the feral look in her eyes, devoid of any hint of humanity, and he took a fearful step back.

Flanked by Ralof and Galmar, Ulfric Stormcloak; Jarl of Windhelm, High King of Skyrim and the only man who knew her every secret; approached. Miria dropped her weapons and fell to her knees. Adrenaline fled her body as a profound exhaustion set in, compounded by her wounds and the poison that lingered. Her head swam as the guards each grabbed an arm and wrapped it about their neck, lifting and carrying her to the nearest tent.

“That was quite a show,” Ulfric said through pursed lips as he followed.

“For you, my jarl,” Miria responded automatically, her consciousness slipping away.

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

 

The low rumble of Ulfric’s voice comforted Miria. “We are on the offensive,” he said, addressing his commanders, “but we lost a lot of men in that last battle.”

“It’ll be days, at least, before their reinforcements arrive,” one of the commanders said, elation clear in his voice. “A week if we’re lucky. We can have troops from Rorikstead and Whiterun here in half that time.”

“That may be so,” Ralof interjected, “but we don’t know how many fled. Make sure the incoming troops watch for ambush.” 

“Yes,” Ulfric agreed. “Have more been found?”

“A few stragglers,” another voice answered, this one nasal and high pitched. “They must be sheltering somewhere.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Gunnar, Ralof,” Ulfric began, “each of you take a group and visit the farmsteads, especially those known to be sympathetic to the Imperials.”

Miria shifted as sleep escaped her.

“Remember, we are not here to make enemies of the locals,” Ulfric added. “We are only interested in ferreting out the Imperials.”

Pain ripped through Miria’s abdomen and she cried out, suddenly awake. A hush came over the congregation and all eyes fell on her as she writhed on the bed. Ulfric motioned to the tent flap and his commanders filed out, leaving the two alone.

Ulfric sat on the edge of the bed, lifted Miria’s head and held a cup to her mouth. The tonic was bitter but Miria swallowed regardless. She usually refused it, disliking the fog it set in her mind, but she couldn’t think through this pain anyway.

“You managed to turn defeat to victory,” Ulfric said to her, his voice strong and steady. “Next time, however, you might let me in on your plans before you go running off.”

“There was no plan,” Miria responded in a whisper.

“Even so….” He laid her back on the bed and adjusted the blanket that covered her. Miria thought she saw a look of concern cross his face and his next words were spoken more softly. “That was him?”

She looked away, giving him all the answer he needed, and cringed as another shot of pain passed through her body.

“I expect that won’t happen again,” he told her. 

Miria looked back at him and they sat in silence for several long minutes. The heat from the tonic spread through her body and clouded her mind. She watched his face, his lips, when he spoke again.

“We can’t have our chosen one dying in a suicide mission.”

His voice was like molasses; dark and thick. Miria wondered what it would taste like and smiled contentedly, raising a hand to his face.

He gave her a pained look, took her hand in his and returned it to the bed next to her, grateful for the lack of witnesses.

A healer entered the tent, carrying additional supplies to aid in her recovery, and Ulfric sighed heavily as he looked back at the man. Returning his eyes to Miria, he said in a more jovial tone, “So that’s a promise? No more running off on your own?”

“Anything for you,” she answered, unable to stop the sly smile that spread across her face. “My jarl.” Her heavy eyelids drooped then and she drifted off into blackness.

 

It was another two days before Miria was able to take the few steps to the tent flap without assistance. In that time she had seen no one but the healer and the woman who had been assigned as her nurse. As each day passed she felt more isolated, separated from her shield brothers and sisters as she lay recuperating, and a dark cloud gathered in her mind. 

As she lay awake and alone, listening to the preparations that took place outside her tent, she gathered her strength and rose. She felt skin stretch and pull, a scab on her side tore and fresh blood slowly leaked from it, but her shuffling steps finally took her to the tent flap and she opened it. She held tightly to the fabric for balance as she watched the activity outside. More soldiers had arrived, she saw, and brought a good deal of supplies with them. It was many minutes before her presence was noticed.

“Dragonborn,” one of the soldiers stated, stopping in his trek past her tent. 

“What news?” she asked, taking a couple of tentative steps toward him. “How goes the war?”

He opened his mouth as if to speak but stopped. Her eyes followed his to the growing red spot in her shift before he finally spoke. “The healer is away, tending to soldiers on the field. Jarl Ulfric….”

Miria shook her head and waved his words away. “I asked of the war. Where is Ralof?”

“Jarl Ulfric insisted you remain undisturbed,” he continued as if she had not spoken. “Where is the wench to care for….”

Another step had her standing before the man and she grabbed at his tunic, pulling him close and speaking as if to a small child. “I don’t need any wench to care for me. What of the war? Where is Ralof?”

The man stuttered, welcoming the interruption from the nurse. “You shouldn’t be up,” she said, leading Miria back to the tent. “You’ve reopened your wound.”

Miria tried pulling away but the sudden move ignited flames in her abdomen. She cringed and allowed herself to be lowered to the stool that sat in front of the tent.

The soldier continued to whatever task he had been on before Miria had interrupted him. “It’s her,” she heard him say after he’d walked only a couple steps, “the Dragonborn.” She looked up and saw him talking to a group of young faces; new soldiers to die in the war for Skyrim’s independence. “She stood in the middle of the camp, surrounded by enemies, but as you can see….”

She was about to rise again, to silence the man and end the hero worship he inspired in the minds of the younger set, but Ralof stepped in front of her.

“You sure you’re ready to be up and about?” he asked, his voice light and cheerful. “Ulfric says,”

“I don’t care what Ulfric says,” Miria interrupted him, exasperated.

His eyebrows rose and he smiled slightly, looking around them before leading her back into the tent. “You should not speak thusly where you can be heard.” The nurse followed them in and went about her work; stoking the fire, setting water to heat and collecting the bloody bandages that lay in a pile.

“Why? Will he have me put out?” Miria sat on the edge of the bed, fighting the exhaustion that her short adventure had triggered.

Ralof stared at her in confusion before continuing. “He is Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King. It is for him that we fight.”

“It is for Skyrim that I fight,” Miria corrected the soldier. “A Skyrim free from Imperials and the Altmeri Dominion.”

“And it is toward this goal Ulfric leads us,” Ralof countered. “He works to free all of Skyrim.”

“Ulfric fights for Ulfric,” she countered, her voice dropping with her gaze. “For power and wealth and….”

“Enough,” Ralof interrupted, seeing the truth she hid in her words. His voice lost its cheerful tone and turned stern. “Ulfric fights for us all, just as you do. Any relationship between the two of you, or lack thereof, has no bearing on that fact.”

Miria looked up to see the nurse staring blankly at the two, having stopped her work as she listened to their conversation, and felt blood rush to her face. “Ready my belongings,” she ordered the woman.

“What are you about?” Ralof asked, raising a hand to stop the nurse from obeying.

“I am a soldier,” Miria explained, lifting her leather armor from where it lay. “I should be with my unit, sleeping and working with the men and women who have come to depend on me.”

“You’re injured,” Ralof argued.

“And?” Miria asked him. “Do the other injured soldiers get their own private tent and nurse?”

Ralof remained silent, understanding that the answer to that question would not serve his purpose. He motioned to the nurse who hurried out of the tent.

“I should be out with them,” Miria explained as she buckled the straps of her armor, wincing with each tug. “Not locked out of sight, hiding over some misguided belief that I’m more important.”

Ralof snickered and moved beside her, helping her into the armor. As they worked the nurse returned to the tent, Ulfric and two guards following behind.

“To the field already?” Ulfric asked, his voice steady and even. Miria got the impression his words were well rehearsed.

“Well enough,” Miria answered as Ralof tightened the laces on her vambraces. She watched his hands as they worked, avoiding the Jarl’s eyes. “I heard the healer is on the field; is there another battle?”

“Just a scuffle,” Ulfric answered. “A group of stragglers trying to return to the camp.”

Ralof moved to her side and began tightening the buckles at her torso as Miria raised her arms to give him room to work.

“Are you sure you’re OK to return?” Ulfric asked when Miria hissed through the pain the movement brought on.

“I’m fine,” she answered through clenched teeth. Ralof answered with a snort.

“Ralof,” Ulfric admonished the man. “I’m sure she knows what she’s capable of. She won’t put the lives of others at risk for the sake of her pride.”

Miria looked to the High King in anger, understanding that those words had been intended for her. The group had travelled together for several weeks and in that time she’d gotten close to the Jarl and the men he kept at his side. She would fight the Imperials regardless but found herself fighting for something other than vengeance when she stood with them.

Reaching the buckle where the dagger had penetrated her side, Ralof grabbed hold of the strap that fed through it and pulled tight. Miria fell to her knees, the pain causing her breath to catch and strength to flee her body. Ralof caught her and eased her down slowly and Miria remained still for some time.

“Alright,” she whispered to Ralof when the pain did not pass. “Loosen it.”

“You can return to the camp if you wish,” she heard Ulfric say in a low voice, and she was surprised how close he was when she looked up. He gripped her shoulder and continued, “But you are still under the care of the healer and his nurse. I’ll need all my soldiers healthy and ready to fight, including you.”

She held his gaze and nodded slightly, assuring him that, whatever personal misgivings she held, she held true to the cause.

He smiled at her agreement and rose slowly, matching her speed after the straps of her armor had been loosened. “We’ve got a couple days before we need to move,” he continued as if the meeting was nothing more than a status update. “I’m meeting with the commanders tomorrow to discuss a plan of attack; hopefully we’ve heard from the outlying scouts by then; and once more before we head out. Since you are feeling better would you like to take part?”

He continued to speak, fully expecting her affirmative response.


End file.
